Redwing Universe Pieces
by Yami no Kaiba
Summary: Redwing Universe, a dark AU started by Katarik that expanded with the help of myself and Cosmicastaway. Link to the entirety of the Redwing Universe can be found on my Bio page. SladeRedwing slash.
1. Hurt Me In Your Hands

**Title:** Hurt Me In Your Hands  
**Authors:** Yami no Kaiba  
**Fandom:** Animated Teen Titans  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing(s):** Redwing (AU Nightwing)/Slade

**Summary:** Redwing reminisces on days past.  
**Warnings:** Do not read if you are easily squicked by Arkham inmates like the Joker.  
**Disclaimers:** The characters are totally not mine; don't know who owns the animated Teen Titans versions. DC owned the original characters, I'm sure about that.  
**Notes:** Based on Katarik's AU drabble where heroes become villains, and villains become heroes. URL for Katarik's drabble (whidch should be read first) can be found on my Bio page.

* * *

The blood is everywhere. Redwing likes it that way, just as much as he likes this time of night. Red streaking on the walls, the floor, the furniture. There are even splatters of it on the ceiling, and he can't stop himself from giggling as he lies sprawled on the floor of the unlighted apartment, staring up at it. That streak looks like the morning sunrise, and that mess there resembles the crumpled form of a bat. 

"I love him, you know," he whispers fondly, stroking the lock of hair he'd cut from his latest kill. It's clean, like all the other locks he takes off his targets. "I love him so much... I killed that lady of his for free, the one that he loved. The one that shot out his eye. Did it ages ago, but I still remember how she screamed... And the devastated look he had when he saw me over her body."

"He beat me senseless, that day." Laughs and raises his empty hand into the air, spreading his palm wide. Looks through the spaces of his spread fingers. The bat looks more like an arrow now. "But I don't mind. It had to be done. He had to know. Had to realize that **I'm** the only one he should look at like that. That I'm the only one for him."

"You know what that's like... Only reason I'm telling you. Only reason I took that contract to kill you. You shouldn't have killed that prostitute, dear Senator, when you found her with your husband." Smiles and turns his head to contemplate the eviscerated carcass of the woman lying curled on the sofa. "I wouldn't have taken the contract otherwise. But you did, and I knew I just **had** to meet a person so like myself."

Laughs again, as the patter of viscous drops splatter on his cheek. Turns his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Then he took that job with that little social club of his. He wasn't around as often anymore. Up in his little castle on the moon, that beautiful silent place that he deserves to rule. Leaving me **behind**," he snarls, eyes flashing behind his mask. Detaches one of his knives from his wrist sheath, and hurls it with a snap of his arm in the direction of the corpse. The wet 'shluk' sound he receives barely calms him down.

"He rose in the ranks, and tried to leave **me** behind. Became the leader of that stupid kiddy League of his. He just decided there were greater concerns to take up his time than little old me, one of the many lowly serial killers of Gotham City." Rubs the lock of hair **hard**, to the point that he has to pause to straighten the little trophy. Scrubbed, nimble fingers tug the strands back to the right height, sliding the auburn filaments under the string tying the bundle together.

"But then I figured: if Slade's only going to respond to the big, world-crisis events, why don't I **become** the person that causes such events? It took me three years to track down martial art and assassin masters, to play the innocent boy driven by revenge. Three years of not seeing him, but it was worth it to see the surprise on his face when we next met."

Purrs in the back of his throat, eyes shuddering closed at the remembered scene. Slade's grey eye wide in shock, while Redwing crouched on the catwalk above him, grinning in absolute joy and near-orgasmic at the sight of his beloved vigilante. That lovely color painted all over, Redwing clutching the leather-wrapped grips of his daggers, which had been still dripping that color onto the floor beneath him. Locks of hair already stuffed into the pouches on his belt, and the multiple carcasses of the assassinated Qurac diplomatic contingent laid every-which-way on the catwalks and the floor below.

"I wasn't always like this, you know," he whispers, and notes that if you look at the sunrise splatter from the side, it's like a shattering mirror. "I had a good childhood. I was a perfect little angel, my momma's little Robin. Her budding hope. But hope didn't stop momma and poppa from being murdered... They had their strings cut, literally."

Hears the dripping of more blood off to the side, and smiles. "Oh, don't cry for me, dear Senator. I got the people responsible. An eye-for-an-eye, a life-for-a-life. Nine years old, parents dead and crumpled on the packed dirt of the circus ring's floor. I'm sure you can understand how that can make a kid a trifle angry..."

"I had heard the people responsible threatening the circus manager earlier that night. I'd **seen** them, and I didn't wait around for some adult to find them and let them go. I pocketed the trick knives of the sword-swallower, and I hunted them down. I jumped them, a knife in each hand, and I flipped and I dodged around their confused and angry blows, slashing and cutting them good. When they were tired, I pushed them down and shoved a knife through their throats until the metal tips scraped the concrete under them."

"But see, momma and poppa, they always said killing was wrong. That hurting others was a bad thing. Yet here I'd just killed my parent's killers, and I didn't feel anything but joy."

Hums and closes his eyes, sighing at the black soothing darkness it brings. "It confused me so much... The blood was so, so pretty, and I was happy, but momma and poppa always told me people who did things like that were hurt--punished by God."

"He found me there. Crouched against the alley wall, clutching my knees and rocking back and forth, caught in the whirlwind of my dilemma. Two bodies bleeding out not four steps away, the knives still lodged in their corpses, and that lovely color splashed all over my skin and clothes."

"I was still in shock at the time. Without saying anything, he picked me up and carried me off. It was so **warm**, where I was pressed against his chest and side. So comforting..." Sighs blissfully at the remembered heat, the feeling of **safety** he'd briefly had. Of being taken away from his problems, being flown instead of doing the flying.

"But the warmth... It was so brief. When he landed, he pushed me into the hands of others, and I was cold once more, **lost** once more. They tried to take me away, but I resisted. Screamed, kicked, clawed. I think I even bit the arm of one of those blue-uniformed men." Without the hyphen, it reads like the men are blue and happen to be wearing a uniform, rather than the men are wearing a uniform that is blue.

"For the briefest moment, their hold on me slackened, and I twisted free. I ran for all I was worth, away from those cold people. I killed my momma and poppa's murderers. I was a bad person, and momma said bad people run and hide, so I did. Or at least, I tried to. But he was there, right in front of me, his shadow swallowing me, and I thought maybe, maybe he had come back to take me away from it all once again." He fingers the lock of auburn hair again.

"He slapped me. A harsh, jarring, open-palmed blow to my right cheek," he whispers, and brings the lock up to rub against the long-ago abused area. "And that's when I knew. If he wasn't God, then he was at least God's chosen advocate. The one fated to punish me, like momma and poppa said would happen. Because he hit me, unlike those cold people who hadn't."

"He's the only one who has the **right** to hit me, now that momma and poppa are dead. Because he's the closest thing to God, and I need to be punished."

Moves his hand to eye the lock of hair he's holding, checking to make sure there's no splatter of his favorite color on it. "I'd stared at him, holding my bruising cheek. Blue eyes wide as I came to the realization of just **who** he was. He raised his hand again, and I steeled myself for another jarring hit, ready to accept God's punishment..."

"But he stroked that gloved hand of his through my short black hair instead. He... He really was God's advocate. He had punished me, and yet still showed me that God loved me, like he loves all his lost children."

"And that," Redwing whispered into the dark room, as he tucked the lock of hair into a pouch in his belt, "is why I love him."

--Fin.

--- Epilogue ---

He doesn't want to open the manila envelope. He already knows what it contains, even if he's not, entirely, sure how many are in there.

There is no return address. There never is. But the stylized cursive of the address to his home, done in red ink, is all Slade needs to know.

As much as he doesn't want to open it, Slade lets the contents spill out on the coffee table. Sixteen bundles of different shades of hair silently drop onto the wood.

Something clenches in his chest, and he sighs, leaning wearily back into his sofa, as he opens the attached envelope to read the letter inside.

/My latest presents for you. Be sure to add it to the number of hits when next we meet. I'll be waiting.

---Redwing./


	2. In Darkest Night

**Series:**Redwing Universe  
**Title:** In Darkest Night  
**Author:** Yami no Kaiba  
**Fandom:** Animated Teen Titans  
**Rating:**R  
**Pairing(s):**Redwing (AU Nightwing)/Slade

**Summary:** Perhaps if Slade had known who would be offered the ring after him, he might have changed his mind.  
**Disclaimers:**Redwing is Katarik's. Slade, Nightwing, and the rest of the characters are owned by whoever owns the animated Teen Titans versions. DC owned the original characters.  
**Notes:** Based on Katarik's AU drabble where heroes become villains, and villains become heroes. Follows immediately after Katarik's In Brightest Day Redwing Universe drabble. For the entirety of the Redwing Universe, follow the link in my Bio.

* * *

He had been happily sitting on the bleeding out body of his freshest kill, humming and tapping a ditty on the old man's forehead when he'd heard it. "Dick Grayson. You have been chosen." Then there was a wave of green light that had blasted through and kidnapped him, depositing him without a fanfare...

Here. Wherever here is. Blinking at the weird flora--pink poofs on top of blue trunks?--he scans the landscape, only to find a scrap heap of metal. Approaching it, he sticks his head into one of the jagged holes of what seems to be a cockpit, to see an even **stranger** sight. "What the hell are you?"

"I am Akayin'ur, Green Lantern of your space sector. Sector 2814. I am dying."

Ah, so this is another one of those odd 'aliens' his Slade contends with while off planet. Maybe even a part of Slade's friends from outer-space. "Did you want me to give you a mercy killing, then?"

"No, I am looking for one who would succeed me as the Green Lantern of Sector 2814. The ring has chosen you after another who has refused the honor."

Well, it isn't the old man, but at least he's **still** going to be watching someone bleed out tonight. "If you want to be in agony for your last moments, that's your choice," and my pleasure, he didn't add.

"To serve is a great honor. Bestowed upon you by the ring. The ring is fueled by your willpower. The greatest power in the universe. A universe where evil is confronted by the Green Lantern corps. By order of the Guardians. The ring..." The alien gave a hacking cough, and he watched on in glee as the thing's life fluid splattered on the thing's hand and shirt. "The ring will make your thoughts and wishes a reality. The Green Lantern's light must be recharged with the power battery."

Suddenly, this entire conversation was **much** more interesting, he thought, eyes narrowing as he sorted the situation out. As stupid as it sounded, that a measly ring would make all his thoughts and wishes a reality... Well. This was alien technology, who was to say that it **couldn't** work? That it wouldn't be able to get him closer to Slade? Either way, it was some type of item of power from space, and threats from space were a League problem. If nothing else, he would be seeing Slade again if he took it.

Now to say some pretty words to the dying alien. "You may rest, Akayin'ur, knowing that this final duty of yours has been accomplished." The relief that filled the alien's eyes almost made him feel sorry for what he had planned. But when the thing gave a shuddered breath and pressed the ring into his hand, that wave of green light encompassed him again...

And he was back in the apartment he had originally been in, the ring **on** his index finger, and looking in surprise at the quickly-being-drawn pistols of a score of police officers whose focus was trained on him. "PUT YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL SHOOT!"

He snarled, eyes narrowing. He'd been robbed of his scheduled night's pleasure of watching blood running out of a person's body, what with him being transported away from where the alien had been and the white sheet over his original target's body. His hands clenched as he envisioned his throwing knives slitting the air and embedding into the bodies of the police officers--

And there was a sudden blinding flash of green light, and dozens of little green knives were in the air between him and the officers, and just like he'd envisioned they landed, sinking into the cloth and flesh like pins into a cushion. Startled by the screaming and the scent of fresh blood over old, he lost concentration on the image and the knives faded as those officers still conscious dropped their guns and folded over, hands putting pressure on the open wounds.

So **that** was what the alien had meant by thoughts and wishes into reality... He could use this. He could **so** use this for what he wanted. Smiling in amusement at the five officers, he narrowed his eyes. "Poor little fools... You should have gone into a different line of work, my friends." Concentrating, he watched as a green serrated dagger formed in his hand.

This was going to be so much **fun**.

------------

He had possibly the greatest creation in the universe on his hand. With but a thought he had skewered random residents of the block with green lances through the heart. A handful were suffocating in green air-tight spheres, others screaming as their bodies were crushed under green boulders and statues.

And still others were pinned to brick walls by green knives driven through their hands and forearms stories above the ground. Every now and then he'd let go of his concentration on a few of those people, and they'd scream their beautiful music as they hurtled and crunched onto the cement below.

It had all been fun in the beginning, to watch as a mother pounded ineffectually at a green wall as he had had a green rope cut off her baby's wail. But now that the initial surge of enjoyment and curiosity was over, he had to admit... He was bored. None of these deaths were personal. He didn't feel the heat of shallow breathing on his skin, or see the look of shocked pain in a person's eyes as he twisted a knife into their gut before ripping it out. Not to mention he wasn't getting paid for any of these deaths, which was just annoying in the extreme.

Now where was Slade? Certainly that little castle of his had been alerted by now? Maybe it hadn't, he thought, looking up at the green dome he'd cast over the block. Maybe the appearance of a giant green barrier that wouldn't let people in or out on a city block wasn't a large enough problem to alert the League. Well then. Maybe a city enclosed and a few toppled buildings would finally get their attention...

------------

Finally. Slade and his team had teleported into his little slice of heaven. The midget and pink haired girl had gotten one glance at the area before doubling over and vomiting. The hulking power house had just growled and clenched his hands, but Slade... Slade had zeroed in right on him. Which was just the way he wanted it.

"Redwing," that low purring growl, and that was all he needed to feel his heart trip in his chest. It had been so **long** since the last time they'd been mask-to-mask...

"Slade," he acknowledged, ignoring the others. Focuses on just **Slade** and the green light fades just the tiniest bit. "If you take one step forward I slit her throat," he said with a smile, pulling the girl closer to his body with one of his real daggers at her throat. The crying is pretty, he guesses, but the sobs and whimpers are just pathetic.

He can see the anger in Slade's eye. The man had never been one for pointless killing. "What do you want?"

What I've always wanted. You. "A promise, Slade. I'll let the little girl go unharmed... in fact, I'll let **all** of these people go. All you have to do is promise me, my God on High, that when I do, it's just me and you."

There's no hesitation, he notes. Just anger, when Slade replies. "You have it."

"**Good**," he whispered, and let his mind clear. The green lights blinked out, and there was a scramble from Slade's team as they moved to catch the previously-pinned and suffocating people that had been held in the air before their bodies met the ground. Yet Slade stayed right where he was, eyes focused on him, the girl, and the glinting silver blade at the girl's throat.

"Let her go, Redwing."

"I was about her age, wasn't I? When we first met. Her parents were murdered just like mine. Do you think that if I hurt her, she'll love me as much as I love you?" Drags the flat of the blade the smallest amount along the girl's neck, watching as Slade follows it with his eye, holding his breath. The girl whimpers again, and Redwing's almost irritated enough to tilt the knife and slide the edge along her throat.

"You said you'd let her go if I promised. I promised, Redwing. Now let her **go**."

"Answer me first. Do you think she would? Because I do, and wouldn't that be so nice for a change, to have someone love **me** instead of the other way around?"

"She's not like you, Redwing. She would only hate you."

"Mm. I did this for you, you know. All this, I did so that you would come. I killed so many today; I'm not even sure how much you have to hit me."

There was guilt in Slade's eye, he saw, but it was quickly pushed aside by the rising fury. Yes, Slade never did like pointless killing. But that's good, because he **wants** it that way, for Slade to want to hit him. He takes the knife away and pushes the girl aside, grinning as Slade **moves**.

He made Slade work for the first hit, dodging and bending under the fists. And when Slade rammed down with his elbow, he **savored** the pain, as he reached out with his dagger, cutting between the metal armor on Slade's right thigh and knee, shoving past the Kevlar weave.

It was the same warm feeling he always got when Slade hit him, always like that first time the man had slapped him. After scoring his own retaliatory hit, he let himself **stop** moving, stop fighting, and just let Slade lay into him. Let Slade kick his side and break his ribs with the smallest of verbal protests...

Then Slade was kneeling next to him, hand pulling on his hair while Slade ground his cheek into the gritty asphalt. "Why do you keep **doing** this?"

He swallowed down the blood in his mouth. "Do it for you. Because I love you."

Slade's hand jerked, and he could feel his skin scrape along the ground, the pressure of the grit against his closed eyelid. "No you don't. **You** can't love anything, you dirty little murderer."

"I love it when you hurt me," he murmured with a smile, watching with his right eye as Slade's left narrowed. "It feels good. When you break something, or bruise me so bad it takes **weeks** to heal... Every time I move, I'm reminded of you."

Slade's eye widened, and the hero immediately let go, backed away.

**No**. He didn't **want** Slade to back away. Slade still needed to hurt him more. This wasn't nearly enough punishment for the lives he took with the stupid ring. Slade should be holding him down, knees digging into his back--

There was a flash of green and **pain** in his back, before the light dissolved.

He could hear Slade taking a deep, shaky inhale, and he rolled over. Slade was **watching** him, that same way Slade had been watching him those few moments when he'd killed Adeline, with disbelief and a creeping sort of **horror** at some type of realization.

He smiled and got to his hands and knees, about to stand up again. "Love you. Love you more then **she** did."

It took less then a **second** for Slade to jump him, and for Slade's hands to get around his neck. It was a little hard to breathe, but then he **couldn't** at all, as Slade slammed a fist into his side before holding his head still as he **squeezed** with his other hand.

"You say you love me? I say you're **nothing**, Redwing. **Nothing** to me. And I'm going to **prove** it."

The hand in his hair was gone for the briefest of moments, and then he was being pushed over so he was on his back. Opening his eyes, he received a stinging slap to his raw cheek.

"Keep your eyes closed, Redwing. Or I'll leave and **never** come back."

The mere **threat** was enough to make him obey. The idea of never seeing Slade again... of having his God turn away from him forever was the most frightening thought ever. If Slade ever truly left him, he thought he'd finally slip that last little bit into **true** madness, as the demons would reach up from the darkness and the ground to take him away--

Another play of light on his eyelids, and he could **feel** them, the skeletal hands on his limbs and in his hair, gripping **hard **and pulling him, pulling him **down**, and he whimpered and jerked, trying to get them **off**--

"**Redwing**." Slade's voice, firm yet concerned, and a **warm**, **normal** hand on his face. It was **soothing** and he thought of Slade, and the light died down and the **wrong**--so, **so** wrong--hands were gone.

Yes, of course, Slade was **here**. Nothing to be worried about, Slade was here and the demons couldn't get him because his God wouldn't let them. "Love you."

The fingers on his face tensed, and then the hand moved over his mouth. "Lick it, Redwing."

He did, reveling in the taste of Slade's skin, remembering the brief moment so long ago when he had kissed Slade. When he had fought the man and **won**.

There was a rough **pressure **on his crotch, warm and **good**, and he lifted his hips into it, still licking at Slade's bare palm. "I could give you so much **pain**, Redwing. And right now, I wouldn't **care**."

Scrunched his eyes and **whimpered** when that pressure lightened and then left altogether. He could feel the curl of Slade's knuckles against his stomach, and then there was the slide of his tights and jock against his skin as Slade **yanked** them down.

"But you **like** pain, don't you?" And Slade's hand over his mouth was gone.

"Yes," he whispered, pushing up with his hips. Please, he thought. Please, want you, want you **so** much--

Another flicker of light, but then Slade's hand **curled** around him, and he couldn't **think**--

"You don't **deserve** pain, Redwing. Not after all **this**."

Pressure, friction, and **heat**. He was crying, feeling wet tears tracking down his skin as his fingers scrabbled for purchase on the cement street.

"You think I **enjoy** hearing you've killed someone? Do you think I **enjoy** getting envelopes filled with hair in my mail?" Vicious **twist** and hand around his neck, fingers digging **in**.

He tried to say something, to say "yes", but all he got is a choked gurgle past the restriction on his airway.

"I don't love you, Redwing. You make me **sick**."

Rough, so **rough**, and he was blinded and heard **someone** screaming, but not sure who, and he was **coming**--

Didn't get a chance to enjoy it; one of Slade's hands was in his shirt, dragging him **up** while the other, wet and slick, took his right hand and pushed it against something cold, smooth, and curved. "I **don't** love you," whispered menacingly, and he **still** had his eyes closed because he **didn't** want Slade to leave him.

"I don't--" understand, he wanted to say, but his voice sounded so **scratchy**, and he needed to swallow.

"Open your eyes," and he did, and he **saw**.

He was holding Slade's crotch. There was nothing **there**: no heat, no **arousal**.

Felt **something** that had been so amazingly strong and smooth turn impossibly sharp and jagged inside his chest. Felt his throat close of its own accord, and the semi-dry trail on his face turn damp again.

"Love you," he whispered, not looking Slade in the eye. Just **saw** and **felt** the truth of Slade's words.

Slade just sighed, and pushed him away. "I don't love you."

"... I know."

* * *

It was night again, and he was back in his cell in Arkham under high security. Guards placed right outside his cell, not exactly to keep him in, but to keep people **out**.

Which was just fine, he thought, curled on his side and staring at the wall. Not like he wanted to leave.

Slade had taken the ring, but he didn't care. He'd used it for the purpose he'd intended for it already. It had done its job: gotten Slade to come to **him**.

He winced as he thought about it, thought about the truth revealed because of the damn object, and curled up that little bit more that the straitjacket allowed for.

He wished he'd never seen the damn ring at **all**.

--Fin.


	3. Shaken Faith

**Series:** Redwing Universe  
**Title:** Shaken Faith  
**Author:** Yami no Kaiba  
**Beta:** Katarik  
**Fandom:** Animated Teen Titans  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing:** Redwing (AU Nightwing)/Slade

**Summary:** Being in Arkham is never a soothing experience for Redwing.  
**Disclaimers:** Katarik owns Redwing and the situations in which he is involved, save for those times in which he's somewhere Cosmicastaway or Yami no Kaiba put him. Tyler is owned by Cosmicastaway/Greysnyper, and is her version of Red X. However, the characters from which these characters sprang are not Katarik's and her accomplices-in-writings' and they receive no pecuniary benefits from this work.  
**Note 1:** Based on Katarik's AU drabble where heroes become villains, and villains become heroes. Follows immediately after In Darkest Night and In Mercury Morning (Katarik's story).  
**Note 2:**The story in which Tyler's introduced into this Universe hasn't been posted by Cosmicastaway at the time this part was posted.

* * *

"Go away."

"Come now, Mr. Grayson. This inactivity of yours is childish."

"I **said** go away."

"Mr. Gray--"

He kicks the book off of the bolted-down table at the foot of his bed without looking. "Go. Away."

The prim doctor huffs and mutters, but obeys, heels clicking down the hallway.

He shifts on his bed, curling his legs closer to his chest.

It's not like he could flip the pages anyhow with the straitjacket on.

* * *

"Your parents died in front of you, I hear."

He hates it when they bring up his parents. He hates it so much. What right do these people have, to talk about his parents?

"Do you want to talk about it?"

When he doesn't say anything, the stranger sighs heavily, and flips through the file. He can tell the psychiatrist is getting both annoyed and bored. Redwing has kept silent since the orderlies had dragged him into this room three hours ago. "Is there anything you want to talk about? Maybe about that superhero you're always fighting? The one named Slade?"

_I don't love you._

He narrows his eyes against the prick of tears, and grabs onto the most inane thing he can. "Your necklace is pretty."

The way the stranger's eyes light up and how the person leans in is almost nauseating. "Yes? Why do you think it's pretty?"

"Because it would be so easy to take it in my hands, cross the ends, and strangle you with it."

The speed with which he's dragged back to his cell and his solitude is almost heart warming.

* * *

The only time they take the straitjacket off is when he's in the cafeteria. The orderlies sit him down first, strapping his ankles to the chair's legs before they take the jacket off.

They still remember the time when he'd first arrived, and had rammed the end of his fork up the nose of a fellow inmate that had been pushing him around; which had been a few seconds before he had snapped the man's neck. They remember how it had taken twelve orderlies to hold his small, slim form down so that a doctor could inject sedatives into his arm.

They keep him apart from the others, at his own little table in the corner. They constantly watch his hands, fearing he'll do a repeat of that attempt.

They never give him lax guards. Lax doctors, yes. But never lax guards.

A tray and a glass of water is set before him. He ignores the food in favor of the water--he hasn't eaten anything since he got here four days ago. It's making the doctors worry, but he doesn't care. He's just not hungry anymore-- and downs the lukewarm beverage.

He can ignore the food, he can be placed apart, but he can never ignore the whispers around him. Especially when he hears the name of his God.

"Isn't that the guy that that Gotham vigilante Slade is always taking down?"

"What? Where?"

"See that guy over there, the one with all the security? That's that psycho assassin, man. The one the League brought in the other day. The one that went and made Edge City look like a war-zone all on his own a few days ago."

_"You say you love me? I say you're **nothing**, Redwing. **Nothing** to me. And I'm going to **prove** it."_

They may have strapped his legs to the chair, but they hadn't taken away the plastic silverware on the table.

The orderlies don't move fast enough to stop him from taking the knife and hacking off a chunk of his hair.

* * *

They've sedated him again, and they had tried to take his hair away. But he'd snarled at them, eyes narrowed, and kept his hand closed no matter how hard they had tried to open his fist. In the end, they had to give up that fight in order to get the straitjacket back on him.

They probably won't give him silverware anymore. But that's okay. He isn't hungry anyway.

* * *

They've put him on a new schedule of drugs. Drugs with long, foreign names that don't mean anything to him.

He smiles and rocks in the corner of his cell, humming "Hush Little Baby" to himself. Relishes the twinge in his bound and healing ribs at every rock--

_"You don't **deserve** pain, Redwing. Not after all **this**."_

He stops rocking, stops humming, buries his head in his knees, and starts to cry.

* * *

"Was there a particular reason for your actions in the cafeteria yesterday, Mr. Grayson, or was it just a whim?"

Of course they're trying to pry into his meanings. They want to be the one to stand up and say, "Look! **I** figured out the inner workings of the most talked-about killer of the decade!"

They don't know **anything**. "May I have an envelope? With a red pen?"

The shocked look he gets is almost amusing. "I... Of course." The stranger makes a hand motion at the blacked-out one-way mirror, and it doesn't take long for an orderly to come into the room with the requested items, for the burly guard to unbuckle the jacket.

He scribbles down the newest address he's memorized, and reaches into his pocket, sensitive fingertips barely touching the lock of his hair--

_"Do you think I **enjoy** getting envelopes filled with hair in my mail?"_

He hesitates. He'd thought his God had loved him. What if he was wrong about this, too? What if Slade **didn't** enjoy the little presents he sent him?

_"I don't love you, Redwing. You make me **sick**."_

He doesn't know anything anymore.

His God doesn't love him, and he's going to hell, never going to see his parents again--

_--he could **feel** them, the skeletal hands on his limbs and in his hair, gripping **hard** and pulling him, pulling him **down**,--_

There's a flash of gold in his eyes and he's so confused, that he reaches for it--

There's a scream, and then movement everywhere, and he's up and dancing, dodging, and **punching** at the hands reaching for him, the wrong, wrong hands--

* * *

He's older now, and it had taken twenty-two orderlies to hold him down so that the doctors could sedate him again. After the drugs had taken effect, it had only taken two of the staff to drag him back to his cell.

He's still got the envelope, and they still haven't retrieved the jacket. Smiling and humming, he reads the name on the envelope, traces the arches with a finger, and giggles when he gets a paper cut from the edge, being fascinated with the bright red color it makes on the white of the envelope. Brighter than the ink, and he almost wants to lick it--

When he bends to do so, his black hair swings into his vision, and he remembers what the envelope was for. Takes the lock of his hair out and folds it into the envelope before licking it closed.

When the orderlies come back with his jacket, he's running his bleeding fingertips over the back wall of his cell, making pretty patterns that he coos at.

He mewls when they touch him roughly, pushing his arms into the sleeves and cinching the buckles tight.

And then he's left alone, and they take his mail with them. But that's okay. He **likes** being alone, because he can make up stories for the pictures on the wall and no one will interrupt him and say that that smear there doesn't look like a crushed butterfly at all...

* * *

His medication schedule has been changed again. There's only a single hour when he's **not** under the influence of something, and that precious hour when he knows he's in his right mind--is he really ever? He's in a mental institution for a **reason** after all--is during the psychiatry appointments.

He hates it when they prod at him. When they ask inane questions, expecting him to just spill his heart out to them.

He doesn't **talk** to strangers. Momma always told him not to. Slade is God, and God is never a stranger. Batman, Cardinal, and Jaybird, they'd **known** things about him before he even met them. And Tyler, he'd known Tyler before he had even met the boy. Watched the boy, deciding whether or not he'd have to kill the blond for taking Slade away from him, only to come to the conclusion that Slade didn't **like** Tyler, which was the boy's only saving grace.

Only **those** people would he ever talk to. Not these smiling, **fake** people, that want to get into his head so they can write a book and be successful.

He hates this place. Hates these people. Wants nothing else but to have his daggers in his hands and to gut everyone here--

_"You think I **enjoy** hearing you've killed someone?"_

He's not sure what to think or what to believe in anymore.

* * *

His stomach stopped making noises on the sixth day.

It wasn't because he started eating again. He's still not hungry, even though the doctors are getting a bit frantic at his supposed food strike.

Sitting in front of the tray of finger-food and water, he finds that he does actually miss his silverware.

It would have been so much easier to stab the eyes out of the whisperers if he had his fork and knife. As it is, though, the tray, its contents, and the plastic cup are still all viable weapons.

When he finishes his water, he makes his move.

* * *

It takes twenty orderlies this time. He has a brief respite to mentally tag it to the lack of food before the sedatives start taking effect.

After that, he's grinning and babbling about bats and birds, and how they dance together in a dark-lit sky, always **just** that close from being struck down by the various hunters.

No one listens.

No one makes the connection.

* * *

He spends the seventh day in monitored solitary confinement.

Or, at least, it would have been monitored if he hadn't flipped off the walls and kicked in the cameras.

* * *

When an orderly comes in to drag him out, he's shaking like a leaf on the wind.

It's only then that they realize one of the doctors assigned to him had had a sister in Edge City. That the doctor has been injecting crystal meth into his system as a substitute for regular, non-addictive sedatives.

The director of Arkham has fired the doctor, but the damage is already done. They order all of his medication to be stalled until after he gets through the withdrawal.

* * *

He's **starving**. His stomach is in knots, and breakfast is hours away--

"Redwing."

--**shudders** and curls up more. They'd **promised** the delusions would go away. They'd **promised** he wouldn't hear Slade's voice anymore.

He doesn't want--no, that's not right. He's afraid to look up. Because he's afraid that he really **is** crazy, like all the people here say he is, and it **wasn't** the meth in his system that made him see, feel, and remember things.

"Redwing."

There it is again. He jerks in his jacket, wishing he could get his hands over his ears and block it out. If he blocks it out, and doesn't hear it, maybe he won't be crazy after all--

Hands on his shoulders, and he's hyperventilating as well as shaking now. He doesn't **want** anyone holding him, not anymore, because he can't tell if they're the wrong hands or not--

"**Dick**, look at me."

It's... his name. **No one** calls him Dick, except Tim. It's always Mr. Grayson, or Redwing.

And he... looks up. And his chest hurts when he sees him. Sees his God, here in Hell, **touching** him again.

He blinks the sweat out of his eyes, not really believing it.

_"I don't love you, Redwing."_

He laughs sickly and looks away. He must be as crazy as everyone thinks he is. Slade wouldn't be here. His God wouldn't dive into Hell for him. Not anymore. Maybe once before, but not anymore.

"I heard about what happened, Dick. I... I didn't know. I'm sorry, I didn't know about the doctor's sister, or I wouldn't have-"

"You're not real."

"What?"

He laughs that same sick laugh again, watching the butterfly smear on the wall. "You're not Slade. Slade wouldn't come here. Not for me, not anymore. You're not my God."

"I was never a God, Redwing," he can hear anger in the apparition's voice. Why did this delusion have to be so real when it was so fake?

He shuffles away from the thing's grip, so that his back is firmly against the wall. "Go away."

Curls up again and starts rocking, humming his mother's song. He likes the way it sounds, even though his throat is parched and he misses every fourth hum.

An aggravated sigh cuts through the tones, and he's frustrated enough to look up again. Becomes slightly agitated--the thing's still there. "Are you a demon?"

The thing looks even more frustrated then he feels. "What? No!"

"If you aren't God, then you must be a demon. Like Batman. Are you Batman?"

The thing--demon?--gives him an exasperated look. "You're crazy, kid."

He shrugs, as well as one can in a straitjacket while shaking. "So they say. Will you kill me?"

That blue eye softens. "I'm not going to kill you, Redwing. Though you try my patience more often than not, I'm not a killer."

"Pity. I want to die. There's no point living if God doesn't love you."

There's a flutter of breath from the thing. Concern? He can't really tell. "Odd. I heard God loved everyone, even those who knowingly turn away from him. Something along the idea of redemption?"

He thinks about what the thing--Batman?--said. It... makes sense. His God's wrath and temper are frightful things to behold. But he **always** loves his faithful, as much as the ones that weren't.

Was this... all a test? A test of his love? To see if what he said he had for his God was true?

His laughter is tense and nervous, and trails off into sobs of joy. He feels guilty and ashamed, for thinking that his God's words could have meant anything else. For doubting the love his God had for him.

He has his God and his God has him. And that's **all** that matters. All that **ever** mattered, and why had he been so stupid as to think differently?

"Redwing," the thing says in exasperation. Who knows, maybe it really **is** Slade, and not some demon?

He shakes his head, and sniffs back his tears and... is that food he smells? It smells wonderful and nauseating at the same time.

Peeking through the fall of his hair, he can see the distantly detached expression on the thing's face, as it holds a pair of chopsticks in its hand, an open carton of Chinese take-out in its other. "I heard you stopped eating. Are you feeling up for some sweet-and-sour pork?"

He stares. Sweet-and-sour pork. His **favorite**. It really is his God. Slade is here in Hell. For **him**. Suddenly dying doesn't seem so inviting anymore.

Even if he does throw up the first two mouthfuls.

--Fin.


End file.
